


Our Many Tales

by spirrum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlets, Fluff, Humour, It's got everything, Pre-Relationship, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theirs is the story made new with each telling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bet your money, lose your heart

**Author's Note:**

> Here's where you'll find all the Cass/Varric prompts I write over on tumblr, so if you're looking for sweet, fun (and sometimes not fun because I do write sad things too, but you'll be warned) ficlets of varying length and degrees of seriousness, you've come to the right place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Varric loses a bet (to Cass or a third party)", and I couldn't resist including Hawke.

“Do it,” she says, and there's an elbow in his side – or, well, more like his shoulder. Like her aim, Hawke's depth perception has never been much to brag about.

“You realize you're asking me to get myself killed.”

She grins, a quick flash of a smile, and for a moment she looks like her old self. Like Kirkwall Hawke, not this...other Hawke, with burdens too heavy for her shoulders and too many shadows in her eyes. Then again, Varric is a far cry from his old self, too, so at least she's in good company.

“It can't be that bad.”

“Strangled, then. Brutally eviscerated. And you would put me through this – you of all people.” He tries to sound sufficiently betrayed, in hopes that she'll change her mind. 

She doesn't, of course. “It was a bet, Varric, and one that  _you_ lost. I'm only collecting my winnings – which you didn't specify at the time, I might add. It's only fair I get to choose.”

“It's been two years,” he tries, because there's got to be some way he can get out of this, to save his own neck if nothing else. He'd offer her all the gold in his pockets, but by the clever smile at the corners of her eyes, Varric has a feeling no amount of shiny sovereigns could persuade her from her current decision.

“Has it?” she hums. “My, how time flies when the world goes to shit around you.”

Varric sighs, but lets his gaze skim across the tavern's residents until he finds a familiar head of dark hair amidst the crowd. She's got her back turned to them, and from what he can tell, she's not participating in the conversation happening around her, choosing instead to listen quietly to whatever story Nightingale is weaving. 

Then – “You're sure it can't be  _anyone_  else?”

Hawke's grin only widens, and she takes another swig of her ale. “I'm quite happy with my choice, actually.” She throws him a look, and there's a challenge in her eyes that bodes no good things in his future. “Come on, Varric. I've never known you to back away from a challenge," she says. "And she wouldn't kill you for a little harmless flirting, surely?”

“Oh, you'd be surprised.” He says it under his breath, but by her smile he knows she's caught it. With a sigh – and another furtive look in the Seeker's direction – he downs the contents of his drink. “Alright. I guess it's into the dragon's den.” A snort. “And you don't know how literal I'm being.”

Hawke only smiles, cheerfully unperturbed. “Good luck,” she calls after him, lifting her glass as he makes to cross the room.

The Seeker still has her back to him, and he watches the slight shift of her head; the sharp angle of her nose as her profile comes into view. She's not usually to be found in the tavern at this hour (or any hour, really), but of course she would be, tonight of all nights. There's a glass of wine at her elbow, but by the amount that's still in it (and the tension that still clings to her stiff shoulders, the frown between her brows), she hasn't had much to drink. Which is just his luck, really. He's never seen her even close to inebriated, but with what he's about to do, a few glasses could have at least saved him from the full force of her wrath when she discovers what he's up to.

_Maker's mercy, Hawke, but this better make you happy._

“Seeker,” he greets, and puts on a smile from his collection. “And here I thought my eyes were deceiving me.”

She jumps – she hasn't heard him approach, and her surprise could almost be called charming, if it weren't for the glare that follows at its heels. “Oh,” she says, voice entirely bland. “It's you.”

Varric keeps the grin, and takes a seat before she has a chance to protest, waving to the barkeep for another glass. The conversation around them doesn't stop, but he catches Nightingale's funny look before it disappears, swallowed by a polite smile, and she doesn't miss a beat, already elaborating upon a rather memorable event from her time in Val Royeaux as a glass is pushed towards his waiting hands. If she suspects anything, she says nothing. 

When he finally looks back at the Seeker, her glare is still firmly in place. “Why are you here?” she asks, suspicion dripping from every word.

“Do I need a reason?” he counters. “Maybe I wanted to mend some fences.”

Her look of distrust doesn't lessen, but the hard press of her mouth eases a fraction, and she doesn't tell him to shove off, which is a start. Varric shrugs, and lifts the glass to his lips to cover the smile. “Or, maybe I thought you looked like you were in need of some decent conversation.”

“I was not,” she retorts smoothly, and entirely too quickly.  

“You sure about that? Few minutes ago you looked ready to bolt.”

He receives a sidelong look for that, and he can almost imagine the corner of her mouth lifts a little, but he can't be sure. “This is not my idea of a good time, I will admit,” she says then. “But Leliana asked, and I had nothing better to do.”

Varric finds a grin – a real one now, and not one of his many 'one-for-every-occasion' smiles. “Finished the new chapter already?” And he doesn't even bother to hide the suggestive tone that curls along the words.

But – to his surprise, she doesn't duck her head, or splutter that it's none of his business. Instead she lifts her glass to her lips and says, “Twice,” before she swallows a considerable mouthful.

He shakes his head, strangely pleased by the answer. “You know, I still can't wrap my head around it,” he admits.

“What, that a woman who wields a sword can enjoy a good romance?” By her tone, she's expecting him to agree, or (because it's him, no doubt), offer some teasing remark.  

Varric smiles, because he knows a fair share of women just like that, but he doesn't tell her that -- oh no. Because she's got that look of irritation that dares him to say the wrong thing, and – he might just like riling her up more than is entirely good for him. “Actually, I was sure you'd drive a knife through it before even considering the contents.”

Cassandra huffs. “There is nothing wrong with the contents,” she tells him. “As it is, I happen to enjoy them. As you well know.”

“And like I said, I still can't figure out why, but to each his own, I guess.”

She says nothing to that, and for a moment Varric wonders if she's not going to answer at all, but then, “I...see a lot of myself, in your protagonist,” she admits at length, seeming to choose her words carefully. “She is a good character,” she adds, as she looks up from her glass to meet his eyes. A small smile finds its way along her mouth. “I find her very believable, for all that she is fictional.”

Varric says nothing, but– oh, he wants to tell her, the words are perched on the edge of his tongue, but he holds them back because this is too damn good to waste now on a whim.

“Well, I get my inspiration from real people who make an impression,” he says instead. “Who knows -- maybe I'll base my next character off you,” he adds impulsively, and for some reason he can't possibly name.

He almost expects her to snap at him, but instead she  _laughs_  – the honest sound pulling free of her lips almost without her consent, and he can tell she's as surprised as he is, and she can't smother her smile quite fast enough. And for the span of a moment the harsh lines at the corners of her mouth smoothens, and her eyes seem almost unnaturally bright in the candlelight, and–

“You should laugh more,” he hears himself say, before he can question the wisdom of his own words.

Cassandra offers him a decidedly wry look for that remark, and it's the second time in one night she doesn't react in the way he'd thought she would. “If there were more things to laugh about, I would,” she says, and takes another sip of her glass.

He doesn't know what prompts him -- it sure as hell isn't Hawke's eyes on his back because he knows what his charm sounds like when he's using it to coax favours, and what it sounds like when he's being honest. (If he really thinks about it, it might be the sombre look in her eyes, or the fact that she can't relax even now with a roaring fire in the hearth and laughter all around her, but he's a dwarf who knows self-preservation, and so he doesn't dwell on the thought).

"Oh, come on, Seeker," he says then. "I'm sure you can find something to enjoy." And if his tone is suggestive, it's not because he'd planned it to be, even if that was the reason he'd come over in the first place. But the lost bet seems a far-away thought, pushed to the back of his mind in favour of the beckoning warmth and noise of the tavern.  

Cassandra looks at him oddly, and he thinks she might snap that they're in the middle of the world falling apart,  _how can he stand to joke in such a manner_ , but -- "The music  _is_ nice," she admits then, and hides the small smile behind the rim of her glass. 

And Varric laughs, an honest guffaw. "You're breaking my heart, Seeker. And here I thought you were enjoying my company." 

Strangely emboldened, she shrugs. "I did not say I was not enjoying it," she admits, quietly. 

Varric considers her, then, and the rare humour brought on by something beyond his knowledge. The logical part of his brain that usually gets him out of trouble before it's too late deems it fit to remind him that he's threading on dangerously thin ice, but it's hard to stop when she's smiling like that (and he hasn't seen her smile much, not in Kirkwall and certainly not here in the cradle of the sky with her burdens always out in the open). And with her lips stained burgundy by the wine in her glass and her eyes crinkling at the corners with something other than anger,  _finally_  -- 

“You know, this went far better than I thought it would," he says, and the words are off his tongue before he can will them back. 

She seems startled by the comment, and then she looks at him long and hard, and Varric wonders if he's gone a step too far, but there's something else behind the look she's giving him – something he can't put his finger on. And something that feels distinctly like unease stirs behind his ribcage.  _Ah, shit._

“Why are you here?” she asks then. “Truly?”

He feigns ignorance with an ease borne of long years. “With the Inquisition? I think we've already covered that.”

But she's not so easily deterred, and not so easily fooled, either. And Varric knows she can tell he's trying to avoid something. “No – not the Inquisition. Here. With–” She pauses. Glares, as though she can somehow read him better if she's squinting. “You would not seek my company without good reason,” she says then, and the truth of it falls heavy like a sentence. 

He doesn't look in Hawke's direction, because he's not an idiot, but he knows by the flicker of her eyes when Cassandra does, and – Maker take him but he sees the moment realization dawns on her face, to settle like surprise between her expressive brows.

“I...see,” she says then, voice hard steel and any traces of her earlier humour gone with her next breath. And there's that look on her face again, the one he can't quite read, for all that she's usually such an open book. It's almost close to regret, but he doesn't understand why she would be feeling that, of all things.

But then, it's the way she can't quite meet his eyes that finally does it, and the thought strikes him, sudden as lightening and just as brutal, but –  _that's impossible_. 

"Seeker,” Varric says, and he can't hide his surprise when he says it. “Are you–”

“I–” she starts, just as he speaks, but whatever she'd been about to say, she swallows it. Instead she says, “I do not know what came over me. It must have been the wine.” But he doesn't need to look at the glass to see that it's not even close to empty, and from the way she's clearly avoiding looking at it, Cassandra more than aware.

“Cassa–”

“Spare me this humiliation,” she says then, voice quiet but forceful below the steadily rising din of the music, and it's not with anger she speaks but something else, and he only recognizes it as fear when she continues with, “Please.”

The twang of Maryden's lute signals the end of the song, and a chorus of applause rises up to fill the tavern, and Cassandra doesn't give him the chance to so much as offer a word of protest, rising to her feet with an ease that does not match the turmoil on her face. And she's gone before the next song picks up, leaving Varric by the table. 

There's a hand on his shoulder, then, clamping down with surprising force. “If you don't go after her now, you're an idiot,” Hawke declares.

But he's already rising to his feet. “I was an idiot for agreeing to this in the first place,” he says. If the rest of the tavern's occupants have picked up that something is brewing, they're being discreet about it, but he doesn't think it's just a coincidence that Maryden is singing just a little bit louder than usual, drawing eyes away from Varric's back as he makes for the door to follow the Seeker.

But – he stops halfway, and turns back to face her. “Did you know?” he asks, though he has a feeling he already knows the answer.

She smiles, and shrugs. “I know smitten when I see it, and she's terribly easy to read. Figured you needed a push.”

Varric snorts. “What, off a cliff? Maker's breath, Hawke, if she wasn't ready to strangle me before, she's going to want my head for this.”

Hawke sighs, as though he's being thick on purpose. “And you write romance novels.” When he doesn't move, she makes a shooing motion towards the door. “What are you waiting for?  _Go._ ”

"You might want to hurry, if you wish to catch her," Nightingale speaks up from beside him, and when he looks towards her, Varric finds the rest of her table is watching him expectantly. Somewhere at the back of his mind the thought registers that Maryden has stopped singing. 

He looks back at Hawke, and hesitates only a moment longer (because she's someone he'd trust with his life and if she tells him to run he won't ask questions, but on the other hand she's also someone who's gotten him into more trouble than he's managed himself), before he turns on his heel, weaving his way between the patrons of the  _Herald's Rest_ as he makes to follow the Seeker. 

"I'll be taking your bets, now," he hears her announce before the door closes behind him, cutting him off from the rising din. And he draws his conviction (and not a small amount of courage, Maker help him) from the simple fact that Hawke rarely ever bets if she's not entirely certain she'll win. 

.

He finds her pacing in the practice yard.

“Need something to hit?”

She stops, but doesn't turn to face him right away, choosing instead to keep her eyes on the wall before her. A heartbeat passes, and another, and then she turns, movements stiff, and he can tell she's on the defensive, though she's got neither weapon nor shield in her hand. “If you are here to gloat–”

Varric holds up his hands before she can finish. “I'm not," he says. "I -- shit, Seeker, I didn't know,” he tells her, honestly, because her reaction was truly the last he'd expected. “I thought you hated my guts.”

Cassandra purses her lips. “Hate is...not the word I would use.”

He doesn't smile, but part of him wants to, because of course she'd put it like that. “And what word would you use then?” 

“Don't mock me,” she snaps. 

“I'm not,” he says again, calmer this time. “I'm just surprised. Hell, can you blame me?" He laughs, but it lacks mirth. "Here I was thinking you wanted me strung up by my ankles, when really–”

“It's not–” she starts, stutters. “I have not thought about it that much.” 

“But you  _have_  thought about it?” Maker, but he can't reconcile what she's telling him with her behaviour – the anger, the spitting dismissals, the sniping over petty issues and over  _Hawke_ , even now. She'd called him a conniving little shit and tried to sock him, and –

“No. Yes. I mean – yes,” she admits, shifting her weight. “If you must know.”

Varric considers the admission – the revelation he couldn't have predicted if someone had straight out told him about it, and finds himself at a loss.

“You–” Cassandra begins then, when he hasn't said anything for several heartbeats, and he doesn't know if she's angry or – Maker help him – pleading. “Say  _something_.”

He doesn't. Oh Varric could say a whole lot of things, but she's got that look on her face – the one where she seems to be teetering between decisions, and uncertainty is such a rarity with her, but she shows it to him now, and it's more than he's asked for and more than he'd counted on, but at the same time–

_to hell with it._

Despite her height it's remarkably easy grabbing hold of the front of her shirt, and he catches the surprise on her face – the slight widening of her eyes, the parting of her mouth – before he tugs her down, the words on their way past her lips muffled by his own. And she might have reached for his throat once for even suggesting it (hell, for so much as thinking about it), but with a breath she relaxes into the kiss, first just a little but then in earnest. And then it's her hands on his shoulders, clumsy fingers tangling in his tunic and her mouth a careful press against his. It's been a while since her last, he suspects, by the hesitance that's replaced her usual brashness, but Varric doesn't kiss tentatively, and when he pulls her closer she responds, finally, hands tightening at the base of his neck. 

She's the first to draw away, the grip on his shirt loosening, and when she meets his eyes there are more questions in them than Varric thinks he can answer. 

"Well," he says, into the quiet, and clears his throat. "Can't say I'd planned on doing  _that_." 

Cassandra glares, and releases her hold, but -- she doesn't step back. "Why did you approach me tonight?" she asks then, and there's no way out of it now, Varric knows, not now that he knows the feel of her nose against his; that her mouth is softer than her frowns suggest and that her eyes flutter shut when she's being kissed, like in the great tales.  

And so, “I lost a bet,” he says, watching her closely to gauge her reaction. "It was years ago, back in Kirkwall, but Hawke figured it'd be fun cashing it in while she was here. 'In case she died a horrible death'." He snorts. "Said she'd always wanted to see my charm in action, to make sure that I wasn't just talk. I might have...embellished my own expertise in the area." 

She seems entirely unsurprised by the admission. "And me?" she asks. "What was I in this? An unfortunate victim, simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?" And he doesn't imagine the slight waver to her voice now.  

He tries not to smile too much. "Not if you're to believe Hawke. Apparently, Seeker, you're smitten with me."

Cassandra splutters, and Varric can't hold back the grin, now. "I -- I am no such thing!" 

"You know, an hour ago I'd be agreeing with you, but now I'm inclined to think that she might be onto something." He takes a step closer, and makes it deliberate, so that even she can't mistake the intention.  

She doesn't repeat her denial, and her hands tighten against her sides, like she wants to raise them in defence, but she doesn't. And she doesn't step back now, either.

"And?" she asks instead, wary still (and she'll always be that, he thinks), but not dismissive. 

He reaches for her hand, fingers curling around her closed fist, coaxing her own fingers loose. "And," he says, meeting her eyes now. "You know, I think this might be the first bet I'm glad to have lost." 

He doesn't know what he'd expected, but Cassandra snorts (an honest to Maker  _snort_ , and he should write it down for posterity). "Your flattery is no less atrocious when it's sincere," she tells him, but she doesn't have anything to hide the smile behind now, and when he gives a tug next she comes only with a little resistance. In the shadows of the practice yard she doesn't shy away like she would anywhere else, and Varric doesn't push further than she lets him, though his hands are steady on her hips, and when she meets him next she's the one kissing him.

He hasn't entirely wrapped his mind around what has happened ( _what is happening, Maker but that's going to take a while to get used to_ ), even as he tastes the wine on her lips and finds that beneath his hands she's not the hard edges he'd expected, but soft curves, and muscles tense with something that's slowly loosening. But good things are hard to come by these dark days, and she's a damn good thing, Varric knows that by the slight curve of her smile against his, still a tentative thing even if her kisses grow bolder. 

But most of all he knows it by the forgiveness that sits in the warmth of her hands, and he resolves that he won't be an idiot. Not with her, and not for all the winnings in the world. 

.

"' _Your charm in action_ ' _?"_ she asks later, when they're making their way across the courtyard back to the tavern. He doesn't tell her what no doubt awaits them behind the closed doors -- that between Hawke and Nightingale there's probably a betting pool the size of Skyhold's treasury already formed and ready to be doled out upon their timely arrival.   

Instead he grins. "It charmed you." 

"Oh, shut up." 

But she's grinning, too, though she's trying very hard not to, he can tell. She's not touching him, and keeping an appropriate distance that's going to fool absolutely no one, but -- her hand nudges against his ever so slightly, before she tucks it securely behind her back. 

And as she ducks back into the tavern, offering him one last look before she's swallowed by the music and the laughter, and the skin of his hand  _tingles_ \-- 

_Shit._

\-- Varric can't help but wonder what else he lost tonight. 


	2. seeker, spectre, stardust (mass effect au #1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mass Effect AU. In which Cass is a no-nonsense Spectre who, after years of advocating the Reaper threat as lies and hearsay, has finally joined Commander Hawke's crew on the SSV Kirkwall.
> 
> (I can tell you already there will be more additions to this particular AU)

He finds her alone, unsurprisingly, on one of the observation decks.

She's skimming over a datapad, severe brows furrowed and a press to her mouth that tells him it's not pleasure reading she's doing (and none of his novels, because he knows what she looks like when she's reading those). But she's not in uniform, which is something of a victory, though Varric suspects he'd have to pry her Alliance colours from her cold, deadfingers before getting her into anything even resembling civvies.

“Spectre,”he greets cheerfully, placing a bottle of beer on the table before her. “Just the woman I was looking for.” 

Without asking, he takes a seat, glad of the rest. Hawke had him do another run on some obscure rock of a planet, which had taken most of the day, and between Chuckles and the Hero, he's been craving conversation that doesn't involve sniping over an age-old race debate. 

She looks up, and by the red rimming the whites of her eyes, he wonders when the last was she slept. “You're back,” she says, and – he wants to smile, because she thinks he doesn't hear the note of worry hidden beneath the nonchalance-with-a-hint-of-disdain. 

She's losing her touch, but there's no way in hell he's telling her that. And so instead, “Your concern for my well-being is touching, really.”

“I was not–” She glares. “It was only an observation.”

“And a pretty astute one, at that,” Varric agrees smoothly. “But then I'd expect no less from the galaxy's number one Spectre.”

She makes a noise at the back of her throat. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you,” she says, and he doesn't know if it sounds more like an accusation or a lamentation. Knowing her, probably a bit of both.

“You mean that despite your reputation as one of the most shrewd women in the galaxy, it took you seeing an actual Reaper in the – well,  _non-organic_ flesh – to realize that Hawke had been telling the truth all along?” He pretends to think about it, then grins. “Not a chance.”

Cassandra sighs. “I suspected as much,” she says, and he doesn't think he imagines the slight twinge of regret in her voice now.

And as much as he wants to (and oh he wants to, because for years she's been on their backs about the Reaper threat, calling it fantasy, accusing Hawke of outright lying to the Council's face), Varric says nothing. Instead he nudges his bottle against the one sitting untouched on the table.  

She eyes it warily. “I am working,” she says simply, as she turns her gaze back to the datapad in her lap.

It's a clear dismissal, but Varric is not easily deterred. “The galaxy is going shit – you can allow yourself  _one_  drink. Hell, if it makes you feel better, use your Spectre card. I hear that gets you all kinds of perks.”

She is quiet at that, lips pursed like she's about to say something, and Varric leans back, waiting. If she takes the time to consider her words, it's not anger that's on her tongue, but something else. It strikes him then, how well he's learned to read her, in the years of their strained acquaintance, from butting heads over Hawke's unconventional methods, to the almost reluctant companionship that's followed her joining. 

“I–” she begins then. “I am...sorry.”

The surprise on his face is genuine, and he doesn't bother hiding it. “What was that? I don't think I heard you – it almost sounded like you were apologizing.”

“I am  _trying_  to, if you will curb your insufferable cheek long enough to let me.” She huffs, shifts in her seat, and she's so clearly uncomfortable with her own admission Varric can only stare, dumbstruck. “But – I  _am_  sorry. About the Reapers, and about – Hawke. I did not listen when I should have. The folly is mine.”

Varric considers her where she sits – this newest addition to Hawke's merry band, and perhaps the last he'd suspected, considering their past dealings. But – she'd joined, even if it had taken her years to realize that the threat they face is real. 

And hells, with the mistakes he's made himself, who is he to begrudge her change of heart?

And so, “Don't be,” he says, and his smile is honest now, not derisive. “The Council didn't believe her, either, and it's a pretty far-fetched story for anyone to sell." He snorts. "I should know.”

Cassandra frowns. “Then – you are not angry?”

He shrugs. “You're here now, right?” he asks. “Helping to save the galaxy, one glare at a time?”

Her brow furrows in answer, but the corner of her mouth lifts up a fraction. “I – suppose.”

Varric grins, and nods to the bottle. “Take a breather, Spectre. I hate drinking alone.”

She gives him a droll look. “There are others on this ship who'd provide better company, surely,” she says, but – her hand reaches for the bottle. 

There are many things he could tell her that he doesn't. He could tell her that with so many things going wrong, like the whole universe is coming apart at the figurative seams, her arrival has been one of the better things that have happened. That, for all her glares and her black-and-white view of the galaxy, she is one of the few besides Hawke he feels he can have an honest conversation with. 

He could tell her all these things, but he doesn't. Not yet. Instead he says, “Don't sell yourself short, Spectre.” And, "I'm never where I don't want to be." 

She is quiet a moment, considering the bottle in her hand, and his words, maybe.

“Cassandra,” she says then, and seems almost surprised by her own response. She stutters, a rare occurrence. “That is – if you wish.”

Varric pretends to consider it. Then, “Cassandra,” he says, deliberately, and does not miss the way her eyes shift to the side, and the small smile smothered by the bottle pressed to her lips. 

The datapad lies forgotten on the couch beside her, and though there's still tension in the rigid line of her shoulders, the frown has lessened somewhat. And as the hours tick by, unnoticed by the never-changing backdrop visible beyond the observation deck, the bottle in her hand empties, and his, as an old wound begins to mend. 

He's in the middle of retelling the rather memorable event of Hawke accidentally gate-crashing the annual Elcor Playwrights Assembly, when he sees that she's fallen asleep. Long legs curled beneath her and her chin tucked against her chest, she looks -- oddly  _human_  for, well, a human, but also for someone with a reputation to rival Hawke's, and he doesn't know why he finds it hard to tear his eyes from the sight. And Reapers descending on them all be damned, Varric finds there are yet small miracles to be found in the galaxy.

He doesn't wake her. Instead he gathers the empty bottles, grabbing her datapad from the couch as he goes (she'll hunt him down for it later no doubt, but hopefully in a few hours). He considers the blanket thrown across the back of the couch, but decides against it – she'd just wake up. No one in his acquaintance with that many responsibilities sleeps well.

When he leaves the deck, he meets Hawke in the corridor. "Varric," she greets, cheerful despite the dark rings below her eyes that make him wonder if anyone is sleeping these days. "Have you seen our resident Spectre around? Council is trying to get a hold of her." There's a familiar annoyance in her voice, but it's subdued, no doubt because for once she's not the one on the receiving end of whatever it is the fops in the Citadel have to say. 

He doesn't even pretend to consider the question. "You know, can't say that I have. But it's a big ship -- one Spectre is easy to miss. She's probably in the CIC with Curly." 

She eyes the empty bottles in his hands, and the datapad tucked beneath his arm. "Probably," she says, and Varric knows she doesn't believe him for a second, but when he moves to leave, she falls into step beside him. "I'll just tell them to stick it, then, shall I?" 

He laughs. "It's what you do best, Hawke." 


	3. oh, all the things I'd do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relliketh on tumblr wanted a post-Adamant scene between the two of them, and so I shall provide. 
> 
> Warning: this one contains some angst, as it's based off Hawke being the one who stays behind in the Fade.

“I've got some letters to write.”

He says it, and then he's gone, back turned away and it's a dismissal if Cassandra has ever known one, but it's also him and she's never known him to be so cold.

Ittakes her whole pride to swallow (and not a small amount of restless pacing) before she finally follows, remnants of anger like coals in the pit of her stomach as she tracks him down in the Keep. And – she is justly angry, because they've been through too much ( _have become too much_ ) for him to brush her off in this manner, like she's just another of their companions, who can't possibly understand the grief he feels. As though she doesn't know the story by heart, as though she doesn't know how much Hawke meant (as though she doesn't  _know_ ).

She finds him at his desk, but he's not writing. He's tried to – she can tell from the ink staining his fingers, and the crumpled balls of paper littering the floor at his feet. He looks up when she enters, but there's no smile for her now. 

“Here to check on me?” he asks, and it's in that derisive tone that makes the hair on her arms stand on end. It's a defence, but she's not attacking -- she hasn't been for a long time. 

She stops just within the doorway, closing the door behind her with more care than she feels like showing. What she really wants is to slam it, or to tear it clean off its hinges. He might be tired, but she's – oh she's  _angry_ , and she wants to throw things, if not at him then for him. She wants to grab that ridiculous open tunic and shake him until he retaliates with something ( _anything_ ) that's not this strange and cloying remorse that's nothing like him, but that sits like ghosts on his skin. 

She takes one look at the yet unwritten letter, but does not ask. Instead she walks forward (with more courage than she feels, because for once she cannot predict how he will react and she's gambling with a poor hand of cards), but he doesn't tell her to go away, even as she comes to take a seat on the edge of the desk. It's not a first, but there's no clever smile to call her forward this time, only tired eyes beneath a heavy brow. 

Her hands reach for his where it sits beside the blank page. “Varric.”

Still he says nothing, but she is not deterred (she won't be, not now, because if she turns back now she will never forgive herself). She knows grief, and the strength it takes to overcome it, and she will lend him hers if she must, because she will not see him fall here.

“I – can't seem to find the words,” he says then, voice gruff. He laughs – a hard, sharp sound, almost surprised – and her heart breaks. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “If I don't have words, what the hell do I have?”

She does not hesitate now, Andraste preserve her impulsive spirit. “You have  _me_ ,” she says, with more conviction than she feels. Not for herself, because she knows her own heart, but -- she does not know his that well. Not yet; they have not gotten there yet and she will be damned if she lets him go now. 

Without waiting for a response, she takes the blank page, and the quill. Not a sword and not a shield, but she will wield them with no less conviction, and no less than her whole heart. “Tell me,” she says. “Tell me what needs to be said, and I will write it.”

Varric snorts, but she only tightens her grip, her slender fingers around his, stronger than they look because she has carried heavier burdens in her life. But – she wants to help him shoulder this.

And so, “Tell me,” she says simply.

His hand tightens around hers then, almost with enough force to hurt, but she says nothing, and when he lifts it to his brow she lets him. It's not a prayer, for he does not pray, but – it's something. And Cassandra waits, patient in this ( _patient with him_ ) as she is with little else.

He laughs then, and she feels it against the skin of her hand, a startlingly warm breath. “What would I do without you, Seeker?”

She does not hesitate. “You would survive,” she tells him, and the words sound harder than she'd intended, but – he needs to hear this. He needs to know, and she needs to know that he does. “And no less than that."

Varric looks up to meet her eyes, then. “Yeah,” he says, but he does not smile. “I guess you're right.”

She knows he's lying – she can tell, and oh how well she can tell his lies from his truths, now – but she does not call him out on it. Instead she takes a breath, gathers her strength and her courage, her sword and shield.

It takes him a long time to find the words (and he takes most of them back before they've left his lips, and oaths rise up between apologies), and Cassandra writes, and crosses out, and gets a new page (and another, and another). But she does not move, even as the candle burns too low to see the words on the page, and when he tells her "Enough. I -- need some more time", she doesn't argue, but puts the half-composed letter back down.

And when his hand does not leave hers, even as she rises to leave, and the soft "Stay?" falls into the silence between them -- 

she does. 


	4. blind fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "someone in the inquisition gets tired of them dancing around each other and arranges a little blind date for them", and this kind of scenario is right up my alley.

He knows something is wrong the moment he walks through the door.

It's time for their weekly round of Wicked Grace, but the Seeker is the only one present, and Varric is never so punctual that he's one of the first to arrive.

Cassandra looks up when he enters, arms crossed over her chest and a frown already firmly in place. “Where is everyone?”

He takes one look at the table – the seemingly innocuous bottle of wine that looks suspiciously Nevarran (and that is, by the label, her favourite), and the lit candles; the untouched food and the rather evident lack of, well, everyone else.

“Seeker, I think we've been set up.”

He walks over to join her by the table, and she watches him approach with a slightly raised brow. "Tell me you are joking." 

“Sorry to disappoint." He nods to the table. "Looks like someone thinks we're in need of a push.” 

She smiles then, mouth curling with a rare, wry humour. “And? Should we leave them in further ignorance?”

Varric grins, and reaches for the bottle. When he takes a seat, she lifts her legs smoothly, tucking them into his lap with familiar ease. Her fingers curl around the stem of her glass when he fills it, before lifting it to her lips. 

“This is an old vintage,” she says into the quiet. “And my favourite. To avoid undue bloodshed, I presume.” 

“That would be Ruffles.”

“These are Antivan truffles.” 

It's a personal weakness she's about as eager to admit as her predeliction for smutty novels, and one Varric is sure only one other person beside himself is even aware of. “Nightingale's doing, no doubt.”

“...I hate this cheese.”

“The kid probably tried his best,” he says, putting the bottle back before reaching for his own glass. “Not his problem your thoughts don't specify what cheese you  _do_  like.” It's an obscure Orlesian cheese called Bleu d'Alyons, although Varric will never know how she can stomach the taste, let alone enjoy it. 

Cassandra gives him a look, and tries to hide her smile behind the rim of her glass. “I will admit...it is a nice gesture. Unnecessarily invasive, perhaps, but...nice.”

“Yes, we certainly have caring friends,” he agrees with a snort. “Although I wonder what they would have done if this whole thing had backfired.”

Cassandra scoffs. “From what I can see, they would appeal to my  _compassion_  with food.” But her fingers reach for the plate of truffles even as she says it. 

Varric pushes it towards her. “I'm curious – would it have worked? If this was, say, a few months ago?”

She considers the plate, before popping one into her mouth. A pleased hum follows. Then, “Perhaps,” she says, licking her lips, and Varric is momentarily distracted by the sight. “I would not have minded it...too much,” she concedes.

“So you're saying my company would have been bearable, with the addition of expensive wine and truffles?” He places a hand over his heart. “I'm hurt.”

Cassandra only smiles. “And yourself?” she counters, reaching for the bowl of grapes, now. “Would you have simply found it an amusing jest?”

“What, an arranged evening with good food a beautiful woman?” He shrugs, and tries not to grin. “I've been in tighter spots.” She chucks a grape at him, but Varric only laughs. 

“You know,” he says then, fingers curling around her ankle where it rests in his lap. “It's been a while since we had some privacy that didn't include either of our quarters. Maybe this isn't such a bad idea.”

Her mouth tightens at that, and he knows what she's thinking – she's wary about being at the centre of attention, and they've been careful so far with the change in their situation. Going by their less-than-strictly-surreptitious set-up, the others have an inkling that  _something_ is going on but not exactly what, or that their assistance in the matter is somewhat late in coming. It could be an opportunity to come clean about it, but...

“Of course, we could have an argument before we leave, if you want to keep up appearances,” he says then. “If we're too quiet they might start thinking we actually like each other.”

She scoffs, but her smile ruins the effect. “Perish the thought,” she says, the words a murmur when he runs his fingers up the length of her leg towards her knee. And when he shifts in his seat to lean towards her, she tilts her head to meet him.

“You can throw the cheese at my head if you want,” Varric offers with a grin. "Call me a 'conniving little shit' again?" And he captures her laughter before anyone can hear it, tasting wine and truffles on her lips, and the muffled sound of her mirth melts to a happy hum as she relaxes against him. 

When he pulls away, he brushes a thumb along the scar on her cheek, a fond gesture he's taken to doing, and her smile curves in silent answer. 

"So, what do you say?" he asks. "Do we humour them, or should I pick a topic we can shout about?"

To his surprise, Cassandra shakes her head. “No need for shouting this time. But...let us keep them waiting a little longer,” she says, then adds, with a clever quirk of her mouth, "It would be a shame to let their efforts to to waste." 

Varric grins. "You speak the truth, Seeker." She gives his shoulder a shove for that, and he laughs. "More wine?" 

"Thank you."

He fills her glass, and when she leans back in her chair it's with a sigh that carries away some of her stress, and that leaves her, legs still resting in his lap and her eyes closed with rare comfort. It's a gentle quiet that settles, and Varric takes a moment to watch her, unduly pleased with the evening's odd progression. 

"A sovereign says Ruffles will be in here checking for casualties within the hour," he speaks up then, when a few moments have passed, but Cassandra only snorts. 

"Two sovereigns, and it will be one of Leliana's messengers," she counters smoothly, cracking an eye open to look at him.

Varric smiles. "And what will they report back?"

She opens both eyes, tilting her head slightly, before stretching out her legs deliberately. He follows the movement with his hand, running his fingers along the underside of her leg. She doesn't pull them back. "That I enjoyed the wine," she says at length, and with a small smile. "And -- the company."

He doesn't wait to kiss her now, and offers only a passing thought to their previous and carefully contained anonymity. Because there'll be no explaining away the sound of her rich laughter rising towards the ceiling beams, muffled partly by his grinning mouth, but -- Varric finds he doesn't mind overly much. 


	5. homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skaianinvestigator on tumblr suggested "Varric introducing Cass to Hawke's band of misfits", and this thing practically wrote itself. Set sometime after the end of Inquisition.

“There's no need to be nervous, Cassandra.”

She glares, but remains rooted to the spot, arms rigid along her sides, and you'd think she was decked in full armour, for all that he's managed to convince her into wearing something that doesn't make her look like she's off to battle. It's not much – in fact, all he's really managed is to get her to leave the breastplate, and she looks sufficiently uncomfortable without it.  

“I am not,” she declares, and of course, Varric doesn't believe her for a second.  

She's standing by the door, listening to the noise from the Hanged Man's common room below, the muffled laughter drifting through the wooden planks. They've been given his old rooms above the tavern, and Varric feels – well, a lot of things. At home, and yet not quite. Both like a visitor and like the host, and it's a strange feeling, after so long away from Kirkwall, to finally be back. 

But the Seeker just looks uncomfortable, and Varric wonders if this isn't a little premature – if he should have asked only Hawke to come, and not bring the entire gang – or, the ones in Kirkwall at present, anyhow. Blondie's whereabouts are still up for debate, but the rest should be there, at least according to Hawke herself.

“If it helps,” he says then, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “You've already met Hawke. And you know me, of course.” But his good humour goes unnoticed, and when she turns around to face him she isn't even trying to hide her nervousness anymore.

“I,” she begins. “I am not good with...these kinds of situations.”

“You mean social gatherings where the sole purpose is to have fun? I'm shocked.” He doesn't mean for the words to sound mocking, and when her face falls he feels – regret, and not a small amount of shame. “Hey,” he says, as he makes to take her hands where they're fretting with the hem of her shirt. “You'll do fine. It's just like it is at Skyhold. Well,” he grins. “Minus naked ex-templars and Buttercup drinking herself under the table.”

Cassandra snorts, but – she smiles a little, too, and when he tightens his grip she returns it. “I know how much this means to you,” she says then, looking up to meet his eyes. “Thank you. For bringing me here.”

Varric smiles. “I'm just glad you agreed to come along.”

She frowns at that, as though confused by his response. “It is your home. Why should I not want to come?”

“It was home,” he tells her, honestly. “But I've got more places to call home, now.” He looks at her when he says it, in what he hopes is a meaningful way, and through her worry an answering smile breaks through.

“You flatter,” she tells him, lips pursed with pleasure she won't admit. “It is unnecessary.” But when he tugs her down she follows, a small laugh under her breath as he kisses her. She laughs more often now, with the weight of the Inquisition's responsibilities lifted partly off her shoulders, and he likes seeing her this way – relaxed, if not a little nervous, but then that's to be expected. 

“Ready?” he asks when she draws away, and – Cassandra breathes, a sharp exhale. 

“Yes.”

The familiar din of the Hanged Man's main room wraps around them as they descend the stairs, Varric taking the lead, and she falls into step beside him with the same determination she usually reserves for physical confrontations. But she doesn't hesitate in her step, even when they come within sight of the others, already seated and mid-conversation, from the looks of things. He doesn't reach out to squeeze her hand, but her fingers brush against his arm before she pulls it back. 

“Well,” Hawke says, as they approach the table. “It's about time you two made an appearance. Late to your own party, Varric? Couldn't find your way downstairs after so long away from this place?”

A snort from Hawke's side draws their eyes to a pair of long legs propped on the table. “Oh, I think their absence has a rather obvious explanation,” Rivaini muses, clever grin stretching wide like a cat's, and Varric feels Cassandra go rigid. “I'd  _love_  to hear about it in full detail when you've got the time.”

He's expected this to some extent, and hopes the hand he places on the small of her back can reel her back from the pit of utter mortification her mind has no doubt plunged into. “Smile and laugh, Seeker,” he tells her softly. “There'll be more where that came from.” And he doesn't know if that's supposed to be comforting, or a warning.  

Cassandra does not smile. In fact, she looks about as horrified as expected – but she doesn't turn on her heel and storm off, and that might just be a victory, considering. The rest of the table is watching them curiously – well, some of them more than others. Broody manages to look convincingly bored, except Varric knows to distinguish between real boredom and regrettable curiosity.

It's Daisy who speaks up to break the silence, teetering on the edge of her seat like she's ready to leap off it – “Varric, aren't you going to introduce us?” she asks, eyes bright with the kind of honest wonder that's about as rare as her personal brand of innocence. “Hello,” she waves. “I'm Merrill. You must be Cassandra – oh, Varric's told us so much about you in his letters, I already feel like I know you a little, but I've so wanted to meet you. I've heard so much about the Inquisition. Is it true you could have been the new Divine? And that you're royalty from Nevarra? And are you really the bane of all bears, or is that just something Varric calls you?”

“Breathe,” he tells Cassandra quietly, when she seems to have stopped.

“I – yes,” she says, though Varric isn't sure exactly what she's agreeing to, and from the look on her face, neither is she. But, “I am...pleased to meet you all,” she manages. Her eyes find Hawke at the head of the table, in Varric's usual seat. “It is good to see you again, Champion.” 

Hawke grins. “Just 'Hawke' will do,” she says. “And likewise. I've heard some rather far-fetched stories about your battle with Corypheus, but I'm willing to curb my belief until I hear your version of the events.”

Varric is offered a glare for that. “What have you told them?” Cassandra asks, but when he nudges her towards the table, she takes a seat without protest, and he follows. Hawke raises her brows, a silent offer for him to claim his old seat, but Varric only smiles. 

“Oh, nothing outrageous – we were up against a false Archdemon, and you took it down by climbing your way along its spine, armed with a pocket-knife and enough righteous fury to set the whole valley on fire." When her glare only deepens, he adds, "And I...may have mentioned that you took it down reciting the Chant of Light. With your eyes closed.”

“That is not what happened and you know it.”

“It's not?” And bless Daisy for her enormous, disappointed eyes, because Cassandra actually falters.

“N– no?” she says, and she almost sounds uncertain. Varric tries to curb his smile. 

“It might have been more of a collective effort, now that I think about it,” he admits, and Aveline snorts.

“I see some things haven't changed.” But she offers them both a smile, eyes lingering a little longer on the Seeker. “Good to have you back, Varric. And to finally meet the woman we've been hearing so much about.” She purses her lips, and there's a promise in the set of her jaw that bodes nothing good for him. “You've had your fun at my expense, it's only fair I get to do the same. No offence to you, Seeker.”

Cassandra looks confused, but Varric only grins. “Cassandra, meet Aveline – Captain of the Guard, as you know. And...well, you might say she's my living inspiration for the Knight-Captain in  _Swords & Shields_. To something of a literal extent.”

The Seeker draws a startled breath, but at the mention of the serial, Aveline groans. “Maker, Varric, don't tell me you're still writing those blasted things.”

“ _You're_ –” Cassandra breathes, but she can't seem to get the rest of the question out, and oh if he could somehow commemorate this moment, Varric would.

Rivaini grins. “Well, well, big girl -- looks like you have an admirer. Who would have thought?”

“You actually read his drivel?” Aveline asks, and Cassandra gapes, momentarily at a loss for words. 

“I – yes,” she says then, a little uncertainly, and for a moment Varric regrets bringing the subject up (she's still loath to admit she reads his books to their friends back at Skyhold, and now he's brought it up before a group of people she already had reservations about meeting). 

But then a small, proud smile follows the admission, and her eyes flicker to his. “I quite enjoy them.”

And -- Varric laughs. “See? Not everyone is as critical as you are.”

“Not everyone has a fictional character based off them,” Aveline counters, but her ire isn't quite as convincing, accompanied by the smile she can't quite contain. “But I suppose I should be happy you've found someone who supports your...unique craft.”

"Hear that, Seeker? Your infatuation with my books isn't so strange as you'd have it." 

"I feel so relieved," Cassandra says dryly. 

“I'm curious," Rivaini cuts in. "Does he write you dirty stories, too? You know, for your eyes only?” And before she's even given her a chance to answer, “Can I read them?”

“ _Okay_ , that's enough on that topic, I think,” Hawke interjects. “We're not trying to scare her off, Isabela.”

“I find it hard to imagine a woman from a family of dragonslayers could be sent running by a table full of  _people_ ,” Rivaini counters smoothly. “But then that's just me.”

“If she had any sense, she would get away while she still can,” Broody adds his two coppers. “A dragon would be kinder in the long run.”

Varric grins. “Was that a joke, Broody?”

“I told you, he's learning from the best,” Hawke says, and the entire table (sans the Seeker, who appears only bemused) erupts into laughter, which she responds to by cheerfully flipping them off.

“So, are we playing or not?” Varric asks. “If I remember, Hawke, you still owe me from our last game.”

“Really? You know, it's been so long, I can't recall,” she lies, eyes grinning above her wide smile.

“Whoever owes who, let's just get on with it,” Rivaini says. "So long as someone's pants drop before the end of the night, who cares about coin?" 

Donnic smiles from beside his wife. “How are you card skills, Seeker? Varric must have taught you to play in that Inquisition of yours.”

Cassandra opens her mouth, and hesitates. But, “I am – alright, I suppose,” she says with a small smile. Varric shoots Hawke a meaningful glance – _go easy on her –_ and shakes his head. Hawke has to bite down to hide her grin. 

"Then you're in good company," Donnic laughs. "Not many can claim any expertise around this table. Aside from Varric, that is." 

"Speak for yourself, big guy," Rivaini snorts. "I play to win." 

"Or to cheat," Aveline mutters around the rim of her glass. 

"At any rate,” Hawke intercedes, cutting a warning glance at them both. “Win or lose, it hardly matters. And it's not why we're here," she adds, with a nod in Cassandra's direction. Reaching out, she pushes the deck towards Varric's waiting hands, and he finds in the humour bright in her cornflower eyes -- home, or some form of it, anyway. Again he's met with the sense of...not wrongness exactly, but that being back feels different than he'd thought it would. 

The Seeker is quiet where she sits beside him, and Varric reaches out to touch her knee. She starts at the gesture, but the smile that follows makes his thoughts settle again.  

"Now," Hawke says, with the promise of future losses in the easy curve of her smile, "Shall we play?”

.

.

.

The evening is going...better than she'd thought it would.

The awkwardness of their introduction lifts with the first round of drinks served, and as they succeed in wheedling out the true story of the events surrounding Corypheus' defeat, Cassandra feels herself relax. The little elf (the one Varric calls Daisy, for the flower), asks the most questions ('are you really a princess?' and 'is your braid detached from the rest of your hair, or is one part of it that much longer than the rest?'), and sometimes so many in a row Cassandra has a hard time keeping up with them all. Hawke adds some of her own, usually to test some exaggeration of Varric's, and the pirate – the pirate inquires about things that has Cassandra choking on her wine ('but really, how does it work, you with those legs and him with - well, his? Does he lift you?' And worse, ' _can_  he lift you?').

The Guard-Captain sighs profusely and apologizes on behalf of the group more often than not, and her husband seems to enjoy just watching events unfold, but Cassandra draws some comfort from not being the only one not part of Hawke's immediate circle. The elf at Hawke's side -- Fenris, Cassandra knows, having read that part of Varric's book more thoroughly than she'd admit with a blade at her neck -- is mostly silent, except when Hawke nudges his shoulder, but she usually only manages to lure a smile and the odd, wry remark.

It is...strange. These are people she knows – well, to some extent; she's read their story from cover to cover, but as they sit before her now, laughing and exchanging tales that grow taller by each telling, Cassandra feels a pang of longing for Skyhold, and the easy repartee of those she has come to know like family. It is a familiar setting but with foreign faces, and part of her feels like she does not belong.

But Varric's hand is warm and steady where it rests on her knee, and she draws her courage from it, and in the assuring smiles sent her way between cards being dealt and coin lost. He does not ask if she's doing well, or if she's uncomfortable, and she is glad of it. It is a small testament that he knows her well, to know that for all her perceived discomfort, she would not be present if she did not wish to be.

“I'll get the next round,” Varric announces between one round and the next, and Cassandra finds a curious joy in the realization that she does not feel unease at his departure, however short.  

The kiss to her temple happens too quickly to properly register before he's whisked past her, heading for the bar, but – she catches the tail end of his smile, and ducks her head to hide her own. 

“He's happy,” Hawke says then, and Cassandra looks up to find a smile from across the table. “Your doing, I take it. A far cry from the way he was on our last meeting.”

Her hands tighten on her cards. “The time after Adamant was...difficult,” she agrees. “He was not himself.”

“None of us were, I think,” Hawke says, but there is only lingering grief in her eyes now, and she seems far more relaxed than the woman Cassandra remembers from the battle in the Fade. “And how do you fare, now that you've succeeded in saving the world? Your Inquisition is still growing from what I hear, but I take it your plans lie elsewhere?”

They are all looking at her now, and Cassandra falters. “I – have not yet decided," she says at length. "I wish to restore the Seekers of Truth, but...it is no small task.”

“But an honourable one,” Aveline says with a smile. 

Isabela shrugs. "Sounds rather dull, if you ask me. But I suppose there are worse things to devote one's time to." It almost sounds like approval, and when she doesn't continue with anything remotely suggestive, Cassandra breathes with relief. 

“What about Varric?” Hawke asks then.

Cassandra tries to keep her face neutral, but has the distinct feeling she's failing rather spectacularly. “He...will no doubt wish to stay,” she says then – admits it to a table full of people before she's even admitted it to herself, yet. It's been a thought that's plagued her for some time, ever since their victory and he'd first asked her if she'd want to come to Kirkwall with him. She has not yet gathered the courage to ask him if she will be leaving alone.

Hawke hums, a strangely knowing smile playing along her mouth. “Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that.”

Cassandra frowns. "What do you mean?" 

“Oh, dear. She can't see it,” Isabela says. "How droll." She nods to the Guard-Captain. “You two should form a club. You can call it 'Blind Women With Swords'.”

Aveline sighs. “These things are not glaringly obvious to all of us, you know.” 

“I am...not sure what you are getting at,” Cassandra admits. 

“You aren't?” Merrill asks. “But he's so smitten! Everyone can see it.”

“Careful, kitten, or you'll have her running for the hills,” the pirate drawls, with a lingering look in Cassandra's direction. “You're the skittish sort, I take it? Well, you'd have to be, if he hasn't already told you.”

“Told me what?” 

Isabela snorts. “That you don't have to be worried about him staying for any sentimental attachment to this place if  _you're_  needed elsewhere." When she does not answer, she rolls her eyes. "Men's faces are so laughably easy to read – dwarves are no exception. Trust me, gams, he's not going anywhere you're not.”

Cassandra stutters, “I don't–”

But Varric is back, and whatever words had been about to stumble off her tongue are swallowed as he takes a seat with a cheerful “What have I missed?”

“Oh, only terrible things,” Hawke replies smoothly, and with a practised ease. “I was just telling her about that time we interrupted that Coterie operation, and you sprung that trap that had you dangling from the ceiling for an hour before I found you.”

No one protests the easy lie, but some are hiding knowing grins, and Cassandra feels a strange surge of – affection, or something of the sort.

“I can always trust you to have my back, Hawke,” Varric tells her wryly, as he takes a seat. “She exaggerates, of course," he tells her, then. "It wasn't a whole hour.”

“Of course not,” Cassandra says, with a glance in Hawke's direction, to which she receives a raised glass and a discreet smile.

“As a matter of fact, I seem to remember things a little differently–”

The story picks up from there, but Cassandra isn't listening, because -- he might be telling the story to the whole table, but his eyes keep being drawn back to hers. And she finds in the fear that's clung to her shoulders since arriving in Kirkwall -- the fear that he'd leave her for the high walls and familiar streets of his old home -- a conviction mirrored in the smiles around the table. 

And she does not feel like the stranger any longer -- the disrupter of an already established group, because he looks at her and there's pride in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. And she breathes a little easier with every laugh, and when the next round of cards is dealt, she does not linger on old fears. 

And when her hand comes to rest over his and he grips it back, warm fingers curling around hers with unspoken assurance, she does not think of leaving, or of him staying. 

How could she, when in a familiar room surrounded by familiar faces, he only has eyes for her? 


	6. write me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift for morie91 on tumblr. If you're a fan of Cass/Varric and haven't yet seen her amazing art for them, do yourself a favour and check out her artblog (moriesartworks).

She is not unfamiliar with long expeditions; has spent many years of her life between fragile homes, travelling. The Inquisition has asked no more of her in this regard than the Seekers, but there is a difference to be found in her leader's expression now – a reluctance, almost, as she delivers the specifics of their assignment.

“It's a long one,” she says, and through the stark simplicity of the statement, Cassandra reads her intention clearly. “We'll be gone from Skyhold for some time.”

She does not bat an eye. “I will manage.”

“At least a month, maybe more. I understand if–”

“ _I will manage_.”

The pursed mouth is familiar, as is the challenge in her eyes, but Cassandra does not back down, and neither does the Inquisitor. “Alright, then. We leave in the morning – Bull and Blackwall will be coming with us.”

She departs with a last, lingering look, and Cassandra leaves the practice yard for her quarters. She's never had many things to her name and so she packs very little, but a mission of this length requires preparation. She has her blade sharpened, and one of the loose straps to her armour fixed, and when that is done she prays; devotes quiet hours to the solitude of the Maker's company as the others gather in the tavern, as they are wont to do before their Herald rides off.

He won't be there, tonight, and neither will he be with her. He's been away the past week, chasing rumours on the whereabouts of whoever is behind the false publications under his name -- and (as he'd no doubt tell her, with a scoff that betrays his attempted lightness) "the ruin of his honest reputation as a writer, and do you know how rare that is to come by when your editor runs a coterie?”

She tries not to think about his absence, or that she will not be able to say her farewells in person, and spends the last hour before she retires for the night composing a letter to leave behind --

_'Varric,_

_I am needed on business for the Inquisition. We will be gone a month, maybe longer._

_I will see you when I get back._

_Cassandra'_

The bed is cold when she wakes the next morning, alone and before the dawnlight has had the chance to crawl through the shutters, and it's colder still when she dresses, fingers stiff but moving with phantom memory that does not require her thoughts. She's the first to arrive at the gate, but as the cold sun does its slow climb towards the endless Skyhold summit, the others arrive at close intervals, Blackwall silent and grim and Bull remarking on Cassandra's promptness being the result of an empty bed (for which she ignores him).

There is no one to see them off but the guards stationed – goodbyes were said the night before, no doubt – and when they take their leave, the jagged rise of the Frostbacks before them and the fortress at their backs, Cassandra tries not to let her mind linger on the thought of how long it will be until the same sight will rise to greet them on their return. 

.

The first letter finds her a few days later in camp, and a familiar crow is perched on the Inquisitor's shoulder when she hands it over with a smile and a knowing “For you.”

She does not open it immediately, but retires to her tent, a wax candle burning low as she settles down for the night. It's freezing cold, but she can almost hear his voice in the words, and even if it's a small warmth, it is enough –

_'Princess,_

_So I found your note. I've got to say, I'm a little disappointed you weren't part of the welcoming committee when we got back, but the Inquisition keeps us all busy these days. I take it our illustrious leader is dragging you into all kinds of trouble? Between you and Tiny I don't know if I fear for the dragons or the bears, but try to go easy on the local fauna?_

_Now, I've got a proposition for you, Seeker, so humour me here. This being something of a longer excursion, send me a word or two. Just a little heads up on how thing are going, b_ _ut don't feel like you have to write me poetry or anything. I know it's not exactly your forte._

_Stay safe out there._

_V.'_

She does not write back immediately, unused to this kind of communication – this exchange of light-hearted notes for the sake of simply keeping in touch – and she fumbles with her quill and her words. She wants to tell him that sleeping alone is harder now than it used to be, that she'll wake up reaching for him, and that long days are made longer by the absence of his good humour. 

She wants to tell him all of this, but what she ends up with is rather less poetic –

_'Varric,_

_The camp is cold at night, and the days are very long._

_I hope you are well._

_Cassandra'_

The Inquisitor greets her with a decidedly droll look two days later, a rolled-up parchment between her fingers, but she says nothing, and Cassandra tucks it wordlessly behind her jerkin for later perusal. And as they climb their way across endless hills and ridges under a blazing sun, it sits a steady reminder that something awaits her at the end of the day that isn't the persistent throb of blisters on the soles of her feet, or Bull's snores carving their way into her exhausted dreams.

She reads it by the embers of a dying campfire, after the rest have retired to their tents. 

_'Princess,_

“ _The camp is cold at night?” I honestly don't know what to make of that – knowing you, you're either trying to be suggestive, or just you telling me that your camp is, in fact, shit cold at night._

_You're probably glaring right now. Can't believe I'm writing this, but I'd give a lot of coin to see it. Hell, I'd give a lot just to see you, glare or no glare. If I could choose, it would be the way you look when you wake up, with your hair loose and your mouth open, just a little. Anyone ever tell you that you smile in your sleep?_

_Well, look at me go on. If I'd kept this up, you'd be getting a whole book and I'd feel sorry for the crow who had to deliver that. Nightingale probably wouldn't let me, anyway, even if she'd get to read it first (although I'm pretty sure she reads everything else I write, so to be safe I'm keeping things clean)._

_Tell our good leader that I hope she enjoys the sight of you in the morning. I know I would._

_V.'_

She falls asleep grinning into her pillow.

_._

The days drag by slowly, and between the never-ending, swelling landscape of the Orlesian Highlands, Cassandra discovers an odd longing for home. It's not something she's accustomed to; her ties to Nevarra have never been so strong that she has ever felt what others would so easily (breathlessly and with yearning) name  _homesickness,_  and with the Seekers she's moved around enough not to form any lasting ties to any one place.

But at night in her dark tent, with the Inquisitor's soft, even breaths that are not his and the foreign tossing and turning of one who dreams, the fire in his hearth at Skyhold seems unbearably far away. She imagines quiet evenings with her legs tucked in his lap; his voice a low drum in her ears as he reads from his notes, and the memories allow her to find a semblance of rest.    

She's remembering his laughter against her skin when she finally falls asleep, drowsily counting the days until their return.

.

Days quickly turn into weeks, but he doesn't stop sending her letters, and she becomes, gradually, better at answering them.

_'Princess,_

_Been teaching Curly how to play Wicked Grace. Poor bastard has the worst game face I've ever seen – and that includes yours, so count that as a victory next time you lose that one silver you insist on betting no matter the stakes._

_The practice dummies are looking a little_ _lonely these days. Think I might go down and say hello, maybe give them a whack for good measure. Or maybe I'm the one who's lonely. Stranger things have happened._

_How is Orlais' bear population holding up?_

_V.'_

“That's quite the smile you've got there, Seeker,” Bull says, dragging her back to the campfire and the company seated around it, and the wicked grin greeting her from across the flames. “Makes a guy wonder what's in that letter of yours.”

She tucks it away much too quickly, and it only succeeds in making him laugh. Even Blackwall cannot convincingly hide his smile, and when the Herald joins in, Cassandra does not have the heart to deny them their mirth. And when the conversation turns to Skyhold and its occupants – to question if their absence is felt in the Hall around supper, and whether or not Bull's Chargers have opened the casks of imported ale without him – she joins in, and for a brief time there around the fire, their laughter rising into the dark sky with the rising smoke, the Keep does not seem so far away.  

She finds an opportunity to write back the following afternoon, in a quiet moment tucked away in the slope of a rising hillside as they pause to catch their breaths. The sun, a hot burn now on the back of her neck and such a far cry from the cold warmth sitting in the sky over the Frostbacks, spills honeyed gold through the leaves, and in the rare peace she finds her words come easy –

_'Varric,_

_You are not the only one. Sometimes I find myself longing for Skyhold. It is an odd feeling, but not an unwelcome one._

_We encountered a dragon today, but it gave us little trouble. Bull insists I should bring you back a tooth, but I do not see the purpose of this gesture. (You would not wear it, anyhow, on account of it not being very shiny.)_

_And you may tell the Commander that I will gladly accept a rematch when I return._

_PS: the bears are doing fine. Why you insist on pushing this issue is beyond me._

_Cassandra'_

She receives an answer back quicker than she'd expected, and wonders if Leliana is using her crows for anything even remotely beneficial to the Inquisition these days.

_'Princess,_

_Are my eyes deceiving me, or are you actually getting better at this letter writing business, because I swear that's sentiment I hear. And was that a joke at my expense? I'm almost impressed._

_I'm going to the Emprise with Curly to see about a bridge. Should be fun. And freezing. And y _ou know how I feel about uneven terrain.__

_Would it make you blush if I told you I miss the way you wrap your legs around me in your sleep?_

_V.'_

It does, but if the others notice they are kind enough to pretend it is from the warmth of the fire. 

.

In a particularly bold mood one night, she signs one letter 'your princess', but has just lifted the tip of the quill from the paper before the realization of what she's done strikes her, and she tosses the whole thing into the fire. Her companions only offer bemused glances, and she stalks off to write another where they can't see her mortification.  

_'Varric,_

_Would it be too much to ask for you to bring a proper shirt for once?_

_Our operation is progressing smoothly, and we have encountered only the expected resistance from the templars. The temperature is bearable in the day, but at night it is too cold for comfort. Bull snores even louder than you, and we are in separate tents._

_And your bed is far too small for two, where else do you expect me to put them?_

_Cassandra'_

The last note is added with not a small amount of daring cheek, and she rolls it up and hands it over before she has the chance to change her mind and cross it out (or chuck this one, too, into the flames).

.

She does not receive an answer the day that follows, or the next, and as the week passes with still no response she begins to feel the first stirrings of worry in her gut. The others do not speak of it, and Cassandra is glad of the small mercy; her own concern is more than enough, even as two more days pass with still no word, and they think she can't see the meaningful looks passed between them behind her back.

She's considering writing another letter (perhaps the crow never reached Skyhold and he's still waiting for her reply), but then the familiar, shrieking call she's come to hold strangely dear cuts through the quiet one night before the fire, and she's up and out of her seat before even the Inquisitor. Bull laughs softly into his stew and Blackwall doesn't even bother hiding his smile now, and even the Herald grins as she unrolls the parchment to see who it is for.

But – her face falls as she reads, and Cassandra's heart stops dead in her chest.

“What is it?” And she doesn't bother trying to keep her voice from wavering now, not when the Inquisitor's brow is furrowed in the way she's come to recognize as one that bodes no good news. 

But then she exhales, and – smiles, but it's a brief, hesitant thing and Cassandra does not feel relief. “It's for you,” she says, as she hands it over.

The writing that greets her is familiar but not  _his_ , and she skims over the contents almost too quickly for her mind to register what the words are saying –

_'Cassandra,_

_I apologize for the delay, and for being the one to write you. There was an incident at the site of the bridge construction in the Emprise, but fear not, he is alright. A few bones broken, but it is being taken care of. Dwarves are resilient, and I have no doubt he will be awake to write you himself in not too long._

_I hope your own venture is proving fortuitous. Your presence is dearly missed (I have a bottle of wine ready for when you get back, just say the word)_

_Maker watch over you._

_Nightingale'_

She does not sleep well that night, or the next. She tries not to move too much, because the Herald sleeps less than any of them, but it's hard when she can't focus her thoughts enough for rest to find her. She thinks of what went wrong, and how it could have been worse ( _far worse_ ) – that the last words they'd exchanged would have been on paper, and that _she cannot remember what she last said to him in person_. 

Her lack of sleep shows beneath her eyes best, she knows from experience, but if they notice the others don't mention it, and Cassandra does not allow it to interfere with their work (even if she's exhausted, eyes heavy at high noon and remnants of worry still sharp in her chest, like a wound refusing to heal).  

Another crow finds them before she's had the chance to write back to Leliana, and this time the Inquisitor hands her the letter without even checking the contents.

His writing is shaky, as though it's taken effort, but the words don't carry the same strain –

_'Princess,_

_Sorry for not writing back sooner, but you know I can't resist a good cliffhanger._

_You've probably heard about what happened from Nightingale, so I won't bore you with that. I'm saving the exciting version of events for when you get back. There's no dragon involved, but I'll make it worth your time._

_(If you read that last part as suggestive, I won't hold it against you. Shit, it's been too long)_

_Hope I didn't make you worry too much._

_PS: I'll see about the bed._

_V.'_

When she wakes the next morning, it is already noon, and it's to find they've left her behind. There's a note pinned to the tent-post –  _'Cass. Figured you could use the sleep. Back soon, Trevelyan'_ – and so she spends the afternoon going through the motions with her sword, until her muscles ache and the hot sun makes sweat sting in her eyes. 

Her stress chased from her system, she is calm when she sits down to write her answer –

_'Varric,_

_I am glad to hear of your recovery. I confess, I was concerned when you did not write back._

_Please do be careful in the future. You were lucky, but I cannot stand the thought of the alternative._

_Cassandra'_

She wants to try for humour – ' _were you at least wearing a proper shirt?_ ' – but her relief feels too raw, too fresh and new for that, and he'd no doubt read between the lines and find her worry anyway. So she settles for something that reads like a report – the words almost callous where they've warmed and mellowed with every letter exchanged in the weeks that have passed over the course of their separation. 

She reads her answer several times, eyes pouring over the sharp strokes, the perfunctory style of writing that does not suit an exchange between lovers, but she doesn't cross them out, or toss the letter into the fire. 

Because with her heart still in her throat, she can manage no more than this.

.

Two whole months have crawled by when they've finally cleared out the last of the templars in the area designated for their mission, and night has fallen in earnest when they make their way back to camp. Cassandra is heading for their tent when the Inquisitor holds her back.

“Just to let you know, we'll be leaving in the morning.” She smiles, and it holds both a promise and an empathy they don't often mention, though Cassandra is not blind to the rumours around the Keep. “Back to Skyhold.”

Something unfurls in the bottom of her stomach – it might be relief, she thinks, or gratitude, staggering in its sincerity. And it must show on her face, because the Inquisitor's smile widens, but it's been too long, and she's too tired to care about appearances now, and so Cassandra only nods. “I will be ready.”

The candle burns too low to give her much light to see by, and she is too tired to hold the quill properly – too tired to think about her words, to sit down and write it properly, and so when she scribbles her last letter it's without thought, without hesitance or reservation –

_'Varric,_

_We are coming home, at long last. I hope it is to find you well. These weeks have made me realize I am ill-equipped for such extended absences, now that I have you. It is an unfortunate circumstance, perhaps, but I find I do not mind it very much._

She's almost delirious with exhaustion when she adds the last line, 

_'my love, I have missed you terribly'_

She falls asleep before she can sign it, and when she wakes the next morning the letter is gone from her hands. The Inquisitor doesn't mention it, but the small smile that follows her order to pack up camp is not lost on Cassandra. But –

she is going home, and that is really all that matters.

.

They return before the dawn, weary and silent, backs bent with their long journey and when they pass through the gates of the Keep it is to an empty courtyard save the guards stationed, who raise their hands in silent salutes. But Cassandra sees the relieved smile on the Inquisitor's face, and finds there is grace to be found in the silence that follows the Herald's heavy footsteps as she makes for the Keep, and her own heart tucked safe within its stone walls. 

Varric is not there to greet her, but that is no surprise – even if he's received her last letter, there was no word of when they'd be arriving. She has time, yet, to allow herself rest before greeting the day. But something like restlessness sits beneath her skin, an anxious tremble in her spine, and so she's taken only a step within her quarters, dropped her belongings and taken a single look at her empty bunk, before she's turned on her heel.

She passes only guards as she makes her way across the courtyard towards the inner Keep, and she picks a path through familiar corridors until she finds the door to his quarters. He'll be asleep, but she's quiet as she lets herself in, locking the door behind her out of habit more than any fear of intrusion on her part (she has just spent the better part of two months in the close company of others, and propriety is not so much as issue now).

The room is shrouded in grey shadows, but she finds her way across it from memory, following the sound of his breathing, loud and familiar from the quiet dark. He doesn't dream, but he's a heavy sleeper, and yet she removes her gear with care. The straps of her armour come loose between fingers slack and fumbling with exhaustion, and with the weight gone, she breathes a little easier. The shirt and breeches follow without thought, and the cold air curls around her in a familiar grip. She could use a bath (with rose petals, she thinks, or violets as Bull would recommend, and the bold thought makes her smile), but she doesn't spend too long considering her travel-worn state as she makes for the bed on silent feet.

He's warm – oh he's far warmer than her memory could ever hope to conjure, in those long, cold nights, and when she tucks herself against him it's with an ease she didn't know she possessed, but it comes to her like the muscle memory that guides her blade in the practice yard.

He wakes slowly, but his arms come around her before she feels his smile in the dip of her throat, and when he murmurs a low, rumbling “Welcome back.”, Cassandra feels the truth of it. 

Her palms come to rest against his back, and she finds a jagged ridge, new to her touch, running the length of his side and up between his shoulder blades.  _'A few bones broken'_ Leliana had said, but this is more than that (but she'd known it would be, hadn't she?), though from what she can feel it is healing well, and there is no bandage to meet her questing fingers. 

“Are there more?” she asks, and pretends her words don't tremble. 

“Right arm got a little banged up,” he says, and – it explains his writing, and despite the underlying humour, when he speaks she catches the traces of a lingering fear, the same she's heard numerous times from recruits and veterans alike, whose sword-arms have seen irreparable damage. Cassandra doesn't look to test the value of his words, and feels him tighten his grip, quick fingers finding her waist, to settle warm against her cold skin. “You?”

She shakes her head where it rests against his shoulder. “Whole,” she says simply, but his hands are following the same paths as hers, and she shivers when his fingers curve against the cage of her ribs, along her back. But it's only old scars he finds; ones whose paths he already knows. 

“Got your letter,” he says then, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “The last was different than the rest.”

She scoffs. Smiles. “I was – happy. And very tired.”

He snorts, an unbearably fond sound. “If I wasn't so sure no one could actually pull of your terrible handwriting, I'd have thought someone else was behind it." 

"You mock," she says, and he laughs, a wonderfully drowsy sound.  

"You write like you use your sword," Varric continues. "Brute force, no finesse–"

She kisses him, smothering the words and his laughter as she tugs him close, fingers winding through his hair, loose now where it falls against the pillow. The last remnants of sleep chased from his mind, his hands are sure where they grip her waist, and when she draws back it's to find his smiling eyes, dark in the morning shadows.   

“I've missed you, too, Seeker.” 

“We have a few hours,” she says then, “before the rest wake.” And even now that she means for them to sound suggestive they sound everything but, and Varric laughs against her neck, mouth finding the leap of her pulse with familiar ease. 

“Anyone ever tell you that you're actually more seductive when you're not even trying?”

“Only in writing,” she responds easily, and – a little cheekily here, now, in their own space and without a country between them. “I cannot know for sure until I hear it.”

He grins, and she feels it against her skin, the curve of his mouth and the scratch of his stubble. “Looks like I'll have to fix that.”

She's smiling when he meets her in a lazy kiss – the slow, indulgent kind that she's missed so much she feels the ache of it, even now. And when she speaks next into the quiet it's to tell him all the things she cannot ever hope to fit between the pages of a letter; a simple utterance carrying more weight than a hundred words at the tip of her quill could ever manage -- 

“ _Please._ ”


	7. make a little room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely skwishface on tumblr, who sent me a prompt in which was the line “Nobody liked the camp at Ghilan'nain's Grove but Cassandra hated it”, and my mind immediately latched onto the idea of TENT SHARING.
> 
> Rated T. Featuring tent sharing, also tent sharing. (Did I mention tent sharing? Can you tell I'm inordinately fond of ideas involving tent sharing?)

She's tired. Oh, she's _tired,_ her boots are full of swamp water and there's an itch just between her shoulder blades below her armour where she can't hope to reach without taking it off, and a furious scream building in her throat, threatening to spill out if someone so much as utters a single word. But even Bull has been oddly silent these last few, sweltering miles of the day's trek. The plains have been endless, with a ruthless sun bearing down on them and though Cassandra is not usually one to complain, it's been a _very_ long day.

It's night when they finally reach camp – the festering little wound nestled between rising rocks and ghostly trees, but for once she doesn't have a mind to care as she makes straight for the tent. Tired feet dragging through the murky puddles, the damp darkness that makes up her current sleeping arrangements is a dearly welcome thing. Her fingers are numb with exhaustion as she moves to unbuckle her armour (finally getting a hold of that cursed itch), and though the ground couldn't possibly be harder she sinks into the bedding with a happy groan.

She's just put her head down on the pillow when there's a rustling near the tent's opening, but it's not the Inquisitor who ducks into the cramped space.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

The dark makes it hard getting a good look at his face, but she can imagine the grin well enough, as he deposits his crossbow in the far corner. “Why, I came to tuck you in, Seeker. Oh, wait. Did you not want me to?”

“Varric.”

He nods towards the tent's entrance. “My tent is – well, I guess you could say it's 'occupied' by our honoured leader at present.”

He doesn't need to elaborate (and the rumours are evidently no longer just rumours), and Cassandra groans. _“Ugh.”_

Varric holds up his hands. “Hey, it's not my preferred arrangement either, but unless you want to go talk to–”

“No thank you.”

“And since you wouldn't be so cruel as to demand I sleep outside...”

She is momentarily tempted, but she gives in with a grunt, turning over so she's got her back to him. “Fine. But you will stay on your side.”

His laugh falls, an easy thing in the silence. “Rest easy, Princess, I'll keep my hands where you can see them.”

She glares into the pillow, and makes a point to ignore the sound of him undressing. She knows it can't be much (the tent is freezing), but she won't have her mind drifting towards what articles he may or may not be removing, not while she's trying to go to sleep, Andraste preserve her traitorous thoughts.

Eventually Varric settles down, but the silence that follows can't lull her to sleep, and her sole blanket isn't enough to keep out the cold slowly creeping through the wool and her loose shift.

“Cold?”

“No."

“You know I can hear you shivering.”

“I am not.”

“And I'm the liar,” he mutters, and Cassandra turns to glare at him through the dark.

“I thought I asked you to mind your own business.”

Varric snorts. “Since when do you ever ask for anything? And if I remember, Seeker, you told me to stay on my side of the tent. You never said I had to stay out of your business.”

_“It was implied.”_

He doesn't argue. “I can hear your teeth chattering," he says instead. Cassandra clamps her mouth shut, and he's silent for a single heartbeat. Then, “You know what we could do–”

“I'd rather cut off my own foot,” she stops him before he can complete the question, and – tries not to sound too horrified at the suggestion implied in his tone. She's not new to the concept of sharing blankets for the sake of keeping warm, of course not, but something about it being with him has her wanting to crawl as far under the bedding as possible (and she can't address those thoughts now, she won't).

“No need for drastic measures, Seeker, it was just a suggestion. If you want to stay up freezing all night before tomorrow's hike, that is of course your decision.”

She says nothing, staring stubbornly into the tent wall and praying for sleep, but it's getting more and more difficult to ignore the cold, and her jaw is beginning to hurt from having it clamped shut, to keep her teeth from chattering.

“Come on, Cassandra," Varric says then. "What harm could it do?”

“I could do you a great deal of harm,” she warns, turning to glare at him now, and she sees the flash of a grin through the dark. But he doesn't ask again or push for an answer, and the silence stretches wide in the narrow space. Her hands are shaking where they grip the blanket, white-knuckled from the cold and something else she won't name.

Then, after a lengthy lull -- “Alright.” She meets his eyes in time to catch the flicker of surprise on his face before he replaces it with what she thinks might be a disarming smile – it's hard to tell. “You will speak of this to no one.”

She moves stiffly (because of the cold or because she's nervous, she doesn't know, and doesn't really want to know for that matter), but Varric doesn't comment on it, simply lifts the edge of his own blanket in clear invitation. She doesn't meet his eyes now, using her hands instead to find her way, and – oh, he's warm, she finds as she moves closer, and she can't quite keep the relieved sigh from escaping.

“Not a word,” she snaps, voice muffled by the blanket as he covers her with it. They're side by side, her shoulder pressed against his, but she's making a point to keep the touching from going any further, from simple contact to something else, something more (like cuddling, Maker have mercy).

Varric only laughs, but he heeds her warning and says nothing, turning over on his other side so his back is to her, and Cassandra finds some comfort in the gesture. It makes it easier moving closer, until she's flush against his back, but if he notices he doesn't mention it.

The camp is still cold and damp (and it smells, Maker she'll never get it out of her nose), but his heartbeat is a steady sound against her ear, and as his breath evens out Cassandra finds herself following suit. And if she curls just a little closer than is strictly necessary no one will know, and come morning things will once again be the same, and he'll be none the wiser. Odds are she will be the first to wake, anyway, and already dressed and ready before the rest of the camp even begins to stir.

These are the thoughts that follow her to sleep, curling slow and soft over tired limbs, and she's no longer shivering when it finally claims her.

.

.

.

He wakes before her, and sometime before the rest of the camp, by the lack of noise from outside and the grey darkness that prevails in the grove in the early hours of the morning before the sun reaches a point in the sky high enough to actually reach it.

They've moved sometime during the night, because she's no longer just sleeping against his back. Instead her head lies tucked in the groove of his throat (he feels every breath against his skin, soft and even with a heavy sleep), and her long legs have tangled around his. Humans, Varric has long since decided, have too much of everything -- too much leg, too much arm, but it's a small marvel to him now as he takes in the sight of her; the sharp jut of her hipbone against his side and the leg slung over his.

But it's her face that holds his attention, the slack brow and her parted mouth, and an urge settles in his gut, taking hold and burrowing roots he knows the name of (because he's written pages of this kind of shit; whole paragraphs full of you-know-you've-got-it- _bad_ moments where the protagonist realizes just what that odd tingle in their stomach is). But it's not a jarring realization (like an arrow to the heart, or another metaphorical nightmare of the same sort), and it might be because he still hasn't completely woken up, but -- Varric doesn't dismiss it. And it's not such a far-fetched idea, he thinks then, strangely bold in the cool morning quiet.

But he doesn't kiss her, of course. She'd kill him for less (smother him with the pillow, probably, as her sword is at the other end of the tent), but the thought is oddly endearing with her nose pressed into his neck and her soft breaths. He doesn't kiss her, but he'll kiss her someday, he decides. Maybe she'll be awake -- maybe she'll be angry, and her brow won't be slack with rest but furrowed, _furious,_ and her mouth parted with a spitting insult.

Or maybe she'll be asleep then, too, wrapped around him in earnest this time, and she'll respond with a hum and a smile and not the Maker's wrath like fire in her eyes.

Varric lets the thought sit on his tongue; tastes it, like he would an idea for a new book, or an intriguing plot twist in one of his ongoing works. It might be a good idea, or it might just be the worst he's ever thought of, but as a writer he knows part of the fun is in the finding out.

He wonders if she'd be partial to the idea -- if she'd respond positively to his advances, or with her fists. (His smile curls into her hair when he wonders whether or not the latter is necessarily a rejection, but he holds back his laughter -- he doesn't want to wake her). The others won't be up for some time yet and when they are it will be another day trekking across the plains until their feet are ready to fall off and they're seconds away from being at each other's throats. But for now there's a rare calm and no hostility in the air between them, damp and cool with lingering frost. It's just her leg slung over his hip and her parted mouth.

And until she does wake, this little moment is his to keep, and his thoughts are his own until the day he decides to tell her.

Or kiss her. Varric hasn't decided which comes first.


	8. little dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "things you said when I was crying"

They’re in Redcliffe when they happen upon it, by accident more than anything else. They’re restocking their supplies inthe market when there’s a commotion, and the Inquisitor is sought through the throng of people. For what purpose, Cassandra is not made privy, but it does not look like good news. Varric mutters something about being a natural beacon for trouble, which she ignores as they fall into step behind their leader, supplies forgotten. 

They’re taken to a small hut near the docks, a ramshackle thing that looks more like a shed than anything else, and even through the stench of fish that clings to everything, the metallic tang of blood is unmissable. But she steels herself, heart and body, as she always does, and when the Inquisitor moves inside without hesitation Cassandra is not far behind.

But however thorough her preparations, she’s not prepared for the sight that greets them.

The amount of blood alone is enough to turn anyone’s stomach, but that’s not what roots her heels to the floor; clamps around her windpipe like a steel trap.

It’s the little girl wrapped in a blanket, cheeks pale and eyes wide and staring into the open air. There’s a woman stroking her back, murmuring softly, but the girl doesn’t seem to hear her. Across the small room, a similar blanket has been thrown over what is, unmistakably, a body.

“Her brother,” the fisherman who’d herded them from the market explains. “Bandits killed ‘im right before her eyes. Bastards ran off into the hills before we could get ‘em.” He’s addressing the Inquisitor, but Cassandra doesn’t hear her response, because between one heartbeat and the next she’s outside, emptying the contents of her stomach over the side of the dock.

The taste of bile burns in her throat, and she keeps heaving even after there’s nothing left, unmindful of the eyes on her back. Tears sting her eyes, warm and wet and foreign against her cheeks, and she can’t hold them in, at the mercy of old ghosts as she’s not been in years. 

She doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps falling heavy across the planks, and jumps when a hand comes to rest on her back, a warm and solid weight between her shoulderblades. And she knows who it is without looking up.

“If you’ve come to gloat, you can save yourself the trouble,” she manages, but doesn’t bother to wipe the tears from her eyes. There is no point in trying to regain her dignity, least of all before him. He’s seen enough. 

“Seeker,” Varric says, and sounds, to Cassandra’s surprise, appalled. “You think I’m here to  _gloat?”_

She reins in her immediate, acidic reply, because he doesn’t deserve it, she knows. Instead she draws a breath – tastes the salt on the air. Unclenches her hands. 

Varric has yet to say anything else, and she doesn’t feel angry now, she finds. Only terribly tired. “You know, then?” She doesn’t specify what – he’s good at reading between the lines, and even if he wasn’t, she doesn’t think she’d be able to spell it out. She thinks of the room – the body covered by the blanket and the little girl’s eyes. Anthony’s last moments. Not bandits, but does it matter? 

She thinks she might be sick again.

He takes a seat on the docks beside her then, and she doesn’t protest. Maker, but she doesn’t even have the strength to ask him to leave, let alone stop him. “I’m a storyteller, Seeker,” he tells her, but the announcement lacks his usual flair. “I don’t just write them, I collect them. There’s quite a few about you, you know.”

Cassandra snorts, though there’s no mirth in it. “I am aware.” They still talk of the Hero of Orlais, but she doesn’t mind the tall tales, not really. 

But those that speak of her brother’s death? Those are stories she wishes would not be told, not even behind her back. 

“You gonna be okay?”

She rubs a hand across her eyes; feels new tears welling even as she wipes them away. And she marvels that such an old wound can reopen so quickly and without her consent.

“The look in her eyes,” she says simply, and pretends that her hands don’t shake where they grip the edge of the dock. The planks feel rough against her palms, but the pain is a small distraction, and it doesn’t succeed in drawing her thoughts away from the hut behind them. There’s still a small crowd gathered still, their murmurs low but not discernible. But it is the Inquisitor who has their attention now, and Cassandra feels the release of their collective gaze like a physical thing.

“Think about your brother a lot?” Varric asks suddenly.

“Do you think about yours?” she counters sharply, and – she honestly doesn’t know why. Perhaps because her first response to being vulnerable is to lash out, to find weak spots in another’s armour when she’s without a shield to defend her own heart.

But if he takes it personally, Varric doesn’t let on. “Some days.” He snorts. “Bad days, mostly.”

She turns her eyes away, looks into the water, but her reflection is too distorted to make out. But she can imagine it well enough.  _“Your face is not made for crying, Little Dragon, so you better wipe those tears if you ever want to find a husband.”_ Anthony had told her that once in jest, and she had hit him for it. 

“Not all the memories are bad,” she admits. Like strong hands helping her into the saddle when she first learned to ride, and closing her fingers around the handle of her first sword. Warm laughter, and eyes she’s been told were their mother’s.  _No. Not all of them_. 

She looks at Varric, but finds no mockery on his face, although she doesn’t know why she’d expected it. Perhaps it would be easier, she thinks; she knows how to deflect insults.

“Bartrand was – not always a bastard,” he says then, to her surprise, and she doesn’t bother hiding it. “When we were younger he had his moments.” He chuckles. “This one time…” 

He tells her then, of an older brother who wasn’t always cold and grim – who could occasionally spare a smile for the one who idolized him. And — it’s nothing she asked for, but his voice takes her mind off the people talking, the smell of fish and the little girl’s eyes. And with the soft lap of the water against the docks, her stomach settles, and her tears stop.  

She leans into his shoulder a little, and he doesn’t move away. It’s a very tentative gesture, but she feels raw and exposed and beyond snippy arguments about Kirkwall and Hawke, and though she had not expected his comfort nor asked for it, it’s not an unwelcome thing.

“Varric?” she asks, when he’s fallen silent, the story having come to an end. And she doesn’t need to ask why. She’s heard the part that comes next — about the red lyrium idol, and the door closing behind them in the thaig. 

“Hm?”

“I – thank you.”

He smiles, and it’s a hard expression, colder than she’s used to, but the hand rests, warm against her back still, and in that there is comfort, and an understanding in his eyes she had not thought to seek. And perhaps that is her fault, for thinking him uncaring. 

“No problem, Seeker,” he says, and – Cassandra believes him.

And with their history, it’s something of a wonder. An even greater wonder, perhaps, than his words of comfort, and his hand still heavy on her back. 


	9. kiss with a fist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "things you said after you kissed me"

_He tastes of sweat and tall tales, for if they have a taste she knows it._

_._

It’s an impulsive decision, not made from any rational thought but anger (or fear, perhaps. No, most likely). And it’s hot and furious and desperate, because _who had asked him to do this?_ Certainly not her, she who’s been perfectly capable of defending herself since the day her fingersfirst curled with surety around the handle of her shield. 

But Varric must not have gotten the message, because she’s sidestepped a swinging tail, barbed with the promise of a bloody death, already knowing what her next move will be when a weight collides with hers – not a misstep but deliberate, and she feels the truth in the force he puts behind the thrust, effectively shoving her out of the way as the dragon lashes out. 

Her back meets the ground forcefully enough to knock the air clean from her lungs, and stars explode before her vision as her head is thrown back. There’s an uncomfortable moment where she can’t tell the sky from the ground, before Bull’s joyous roar rushes past her, and she feels the drum of his footsteps like laughter along her spine. And she knows the final blow will not be hers, but that’s not the thought that sits at the forefront of her mind. 

She’s pushing herself to her feet before the drake has taken its dying breath at the tender mercy of a well-aimed axe, and she’s livid, a shriek building in her throat as she throws her sword down, having lost her shield during her fall. Varric is sitting some ways off, favouring what looks like a severely injured shoulder, and Cassandra can spot the bruise blooming already beneath his open shirt. 

And her common sense must have been knocked out along with her breath, because she doesn’t stop to think as she stalks towards him, and she’s got a plan in mind, she does, truly. 

She plans to sock him. 

…

She does not plan the kiss. 

Her hands curl to fists in his tunic, and it’s an inelegant clash of teeth and perhaps it’s a punch after all, but she’s blind with a fright she can’t put her finger on and so she puts them on him instead. 

When she draws back, startled at her own actions and with no words to offer in explanation, Varric grins. 

“Why, Seeker, looks like all that  _research_ has paid off—“ 

She hits him then – a smooth fist, curled with intent and connecting with his nose with a pleasing _crack_. But his laughter is what she gets in return, and his fingers on her jerkin, pulling her back down before she’s moved out of reach. And his hands might be gentler than hers, a writer’s hands, but their grip is no less insistent. 

A dragon lies dead at their feet and they’re necking like adolescents behind the local Chantry board. 

She pulls back first, her reckless heart in her thoat along with her breath. “You will  _not_  do that again,” she tells him with a huff.  

He has the audacity to look droll. “And would that be kiss you or—?”

“ _Ugh_.” 

She considers punching him again. 

…

She kisses him instead.  

There’s a whistle at her back and Bull is laughing with more than his usual post-battle mirth, but Cassandra’s urge to put her fist through something has, mysteriously, disappeared. 


	10. time did not slow for us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: character death.

( _and we were old things, my love_ )

.

The world has not treated them kindly in all respects, but one thing they were given was the gift of old age, whether by the Maker’s grace or some stroke of odd luck is entirely debatable. But they’ve never questioned the years granted them, and in them they grow old and grey and weary, she like an oak, wiry and resilient and though she’ll feel her hip ache when the sky turns overcast she’ll never speak of it. But he’ll know, and he’ll talk her into the armchair by the fire, words still smooth after many hard years. He’s not as flexible, certainly not like an oak but perhaps a slab of stone, and makes a fuss over his back, vocal where she’s silent. And she hides her fondness with practised ease, the grumble at the back of her throat hinting at affection with roots buried deep. 

They grow old and they argue and they laugh. They have good days, where the world they live in seems worth the years they gave keeping it together. And they’ll have colder, darker days, where their losses will seem too great for words, let alone laughter. They don’t speak much on these days, but some things stay the same, routines they perform by heart. His hand on her hip as he passes her by, and two cups of tea carried to the small table by the fireplace. Their old cat curls by his legs, and well-thumbed pages crinkle between fingers that long for the handle of her sword. She still reads before she goes to sleep, with her eyes straining in the candlelight and him a warm weight beside her, snoring softly. He always falls asleep first, and she’ll blow out her candle and turn towards him in the dark, cool hands finding his beneath the bedding.

“Varric?”

“Hmm?”

“Goodnight.”

A drowsy kiss pressed to her brow, above her eye where a scar cuts an ever-fading path, and the chill recedes just a little. “Night, Seeker,” he says, just a little glibly, for he still calls her that though it’s been years since she held the post. And though she feigns irritation, her bones feel a little less brittle, and she falls asleep to his breathing, familiar as the small prayer she utters before the Fade welcomes her back.

They grow old, but their years are not numberless, and time catches up with them between familiar routines and memories of days they were not so grey, and not near so wise.

The air is damp with autumn’s first chill when he falls asleep with the candle burning low on his side of the bed, a book still caught between his fingers.

“Varric?” Her hand closes over his wrist, and she gives him a little shake. “Varric, you forgot to blow out the candle.” A heartbeat passes, hers, and she tries again. “Love?”

There is no response — no snort as he starts out of his slumber, and she knows what’s wrong before she’s taken her next breath, a lone, ragged sound in the sudden quiet of their bedchamber. A sense of finality, it comes to rest somewhere below her ribcage. 

_Oh_ , she thinks. 

She does not weep. Not at once, because her heart has weathered many things, and she holds herself together through the night and into the early morning hours as she paces, listless before a cold hearth. There are things that need to be taken care of, and ever the practical soul, Cassandra buries her grief in preparations and letter-writing, keeps her hands busy and her tears at bay. The day that follows is a cold one, webs of frost on the window-panes and leaves gathering by the door, crumbling under an old cat’s paw. The creature does not venture far, and when she leaves the door to the guest bedchamber open (because she can’t sleep anywhere else, not now, perhaps never), it keeps silent vigil by the foot of the bed, where she lies awake with a book she knows by heart but can’t bear to read.

Hawke is the first to arrive, shortly after the first letter is sent, her husband a silent shadow and with enough understanding in her eyes to keep from reaching for Cassandra’s hands, gnarled roots wrapped around a wedding ring too large for any of her fingers, sitting heavy in her palm. 

“What can I do?” she asks simply, but Cassandra has no answer. She has slept little, and most of the things that had needed taking care of have been; all the letters written and sent. And so, “What should I do?”

“Stay,” she manages, but Hawke only nods, and sets about rooting through the cupboards for something stronger than tea, knowing already that it will soon be in demand, and Cassandra does not stop her. 

The pirate shows up the next day, breath already smelling of whiskey and with the little elf in tow, green eyes full of tears that make her own sting and her hair speckled with grey like frost on a fir tree. No daisies in her arms. “It’s not the season for them,” she says, accent made thicker with her anguish, and “Oh,  _lethallan_.”  

There are other arrivals, those who do not intend to stay but who are welcome regardless. “When did it happen?” come the quiet murmurs, and hands offering comfort she does not know how to receive. “How?”

“In his sleep,” she says, and “Quietly.” The fate of the old, in whose idle hands are leather-bound spines and teacups, not the polished wood of a crossbow or the cold, sure handle of a blade. A mercy perhaps, to live a life so long the latter become fond memories, but it’s the dream of the young and the foolish, with no grey in their hair and no longing to join the Maker’s side.  _Those who do not know if their loved ones will be waiting there, when they finally follow_. 

Cassandra does not speak of the longing, or of the Maker or Andraste, and still she does not weep.

Josephine’s arrival is a punctual affair, but there is little of her usual flourish as she sweeps across the doorstep, kind eyes and sure hands welcome comforts. She takes control of matters with a perfunctory nod of her head, and Cassandra spends her first few hours of true rest tucked away in the guest bed as the house bustles with visitors. She wakes to a tray of food placed on the nightstand, and sees the door close behind a familiar back. She will greet the Inquisitor later, as she will those who have arrived with her, but now that she has allowed herself to finally rest, the warm bed offers a compelling relief from the world that awaits beyond the doorway. 

By the time she rises the day has gone and the sitting room is filled, and her arrival prompts a few raised voices, a muted cheer that does not reach their eyes entirely, but the room  _breathes_ , and something loosens in her breast. 

A glass of honeyed wine is pushed into her hands as a greying moustache curves with a familiar smile. “And here we were beginning to worry you’d sleep through the whole thing,” Dorian says, but there is sympathy in his voice, and she accepts it along with the wine as she takes a seat beside him. The years have done him favours, and if circumstances were different he’d be telling her so himself, no doubt. The thought comes with a swell of unbearable fondness, and for a moment her sorrow rests a little lighter on her heart.

She’s happened upon them in the middle of a story, and with her glass cooling between her fingers she sits back to listen, finding a longed-for lightness in the familiar tale. It’s one she’s heard before, but from his mouth not Hawke’s, but she has never lacked in imagination, and with the telling she finds traces of his laughter on the edges of the words chosen, and small intricacies of his speech that tells her Hawke has heard this story many times herself. It makes her mouth curve just a little, but if anyone notices, it’s not mentioned. 

An untouched deck of cards sits by the mantelpiece, but no one makes to grab it. Somehow, Cassandra feels it would be too much. 

Their daughter is the last to arrive, in the dead of night from a far-off adventure, eyes wide and bloodshot, but like her mother she buries her grief in the work that needs to be done, and in her shadow Cassandra sees the girl dragging her hissing kitten around, humming songs under her breath and declaring herself the greatest bard that ever lived. But she is subdued now, her laugh-lines sombre memories of youthful smiles, and the cat is too old to offer much protest as it slinks at her heels. 

And then it’s over, and the guests have retired, their home teeming for the first time in years and wrapped in the eerie quiet that only Death brings. An odd paradox, perhaps, but then he’d always aspired to be particularly difficult. 

“Goodnight,” says their girl who is a girl no longer, her soft voice wrought with nameless sorrows. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Cassandra holds her back a moment, but says nothing, and listens to her footsteps as they recede, to be wrapped up in the silence that permeates the spaces between familiar walls and doorways and banisters. Her hip aches with the promise of cold weather, her hands shaking with the thought of an empty bed, and as realization fully settles, pressure builds like clouds in her throat. There is no ravaged plain and no sword in her hand, but there’s a battle to be faced, only she doesn’t know if it will last her weeks or months or even years. 

They’d grown old together, but now it’s only her, an oak weathering a storm that won’t pass, and her tears come,  _finally_ , as she sits alone before the fire, an empty armchair by her side and her daughter’s goodnight kiss burning on her brow. 


End file.
